


Dependence

by golden_redhead



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Bruises, Choking, Drinking, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking, Suggestive Themes, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 23:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_redhead/pseuds/golden_redhead
Summary: “I love you,” Momota tries again months after the words slipped out of his mouth for the first time, and Ouma muses about how it sounds the same way as when he admits to hating him.“You talk too much,” he informs him and then leans in for a kiss, his teeth gnawing at Momota’s lips until he tastes blood.





	Dependence

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with serious issues such as PTSD, depression and unhealthy methods of dealing with those things, so it's not everyone's cup of tea. It's set in a post-game Virtual Reality AU. Please, read the tags and decide whether it's something you feel comfortable with reading.
> 
> **CONTENT WARNING:** Everything listed in the tags. A vague mention of vomit, too small to justify putting it as a separate tag. Addiction. NSFW elements. Choking someone. Destructive and self-sabotaging behaviour. A scene that could be interpreted as implied eating disorder. This kind of stuff.

It’s angry and rough and desperate. 

Full of hurt and pent up anger, laced with regrets and hopelessness, a desperate need to feel something — anything — other than numbness. 

They know how to hurt and — what is more important — they know how to hurt each other. A bite here, a hard scratch there, a dance of pull and shove they are so good at, have been ever since the moment they met. It lacks pretense, lacks any kind of subtlety, just raw emotion tearing them both apart until all there is is raw skin and bruised lips. 

“I love you,” Momota says between the thrusts and Ouma doesn’t believe him one bit. 

Still, he reaches for his collar and pulls him closer until their lips crash, uncoordinated, and he moves against him in fervent urgency. 

Ouma sneaks out of Momota’s room as soon as they’re done. He doesn’t try to stop him. 

-

“Momota-kun, is there something you’d like to tell Ouma-kun?” Their therapist’s polite, professional smile strains as she adjusts her glasses and glances not so discreetly at the clock before her eyes flicker back to his face. 

Momota scoffs, glaring daggers at the smaller boy sitting all the way across the room, swinging his legs back and forth in his chair like an overgrown child. 

“Go fuck yourself,” he says with all the disgust he can muster. 

Ouma’s smile turns devilish and he leans forward in his seat, a dangerous glint shimmering in his eyes when he licks his lips and says, “I’d rather fuck you.”

The therapist pinches the bridge of her nose and informs them that they’re free to go. She sounds oddly defeated, a fact that forces a small smile on Ouma’s face when he jumps to his feet and leaves, humming a cheerful tune. One week later, there’s a new therapist in her place, a small badge proudly proclaiming that she’s part of Team Danganronpa’s minions pinned to the folds of her blouse and gleaming in the dim light. 

-

The taste of coffee is bitter on his tongue and he downs the entire cup in one gulp, slamming it back on the table and then immediately wincing at the volume. 

On the other side of the table, Ouma doesn’t even bother to look up from his tablet, the events of the fourth chapter replaying right between his eyes, over and over again, his eyes never leaving the small screen.

“How can you even watch this shit?” Momota rasps, feeling nauseous.

“Evidence,” Ouma says quietly, his knuckles whitening where they tighten around the tablet. 

Momota doesn’t ask what he means by that.

-

The smoke floats around Momota’s head, silver wisps twisting and dancing in the harsh winter air that’s pressing freezing kisses against his cheeks, tinting them with a faint shade of red. He swallows the dry fumes, fills his lungs with malodorous poison.

“Since when do you smoke?” questions Ouma, curving his eyebrow at him and then wrinkling his nose in disgust once the acrid smell reaches his nose. 

The tendrils of silver-grey smoke drift away and Momota follows them with his eyes until they disappear, carried by the wind only to turn into thin air. 

“I don’t.”

-

He wakes up to Momota’s hands wrapped around his neck, fingers pressing against his windpipe in a silent threat. 

“Do it,” he challenges him, voice steady and his gaze unwavering. 

Something flickers through Momota’s eyes and then he presses harder, more sure now, slowly squeezing the life out of him. Ouma’s hands twitch to reach out, urging him to try to pry Momota’s crushing fingers away from his neck. They remain at his sides, though, even when he lets out the first pitiful, choked up gasp, more following soon after, his lilac eyes widening in panic. 

Momota keeps pressing until the black dots start to swim across his vision, lips parted in a mute scream. And then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the pressure is gone and Momota backs away from him as he draws shuddering, hungry breaths, filling his lungs with air anew. 

Ouma lies there, on Momota’s bed — the same bed they share every night — staring blankly at the ceiling and the warm, ironic glow of the plastic stars scattered across it, listening to his breath slowly turn back to normal. 

“You’re a coward, Momota-chan,” he says matter-of-factly, words quiet and hoarse and very tired. 

Momota slams the door when he leaves.

-

Saihara and Harukawa visit them in April. Or, more accurately, they visit Momota in April. He doesn’t really pay much attention to the months, not anymore, but sometimes the sweet smell of cherry blossom sneaks in into their apartment, so he knows it must be early April at least. 

It’s their first and last visit. 

Ouma curls on the floor in Momota’s small bedroom, back pressed against the door, snippets of their conversation — of their _ argument _ — reaching his ears through the thick wooden surface as he pulls his knees closer and rests his chin on them, listening carefully and not daring to breathe. 

“He’s bad for you,” is what Saihara is saying, some kind of helpless, sorrowful plea trapped in his normally timid voice. “Momota-kun, we just worry that he—”

“He killed you. This is reason enough to keep as far away from him as possible,” Harukawa interrupts him impatiently and Ouma giggles into his knees. He doesn’t need to see her to know there’s a deep scowl on her face, eyebrows drawn together and eyes flashing red, promising a slow and painful death. 

Some things never change. 

“If I remember correctly it wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t shoot him first. You don’t know him like I do. You have no idea—” Momota’s frustrated growl comes from the other side of the door and he decides that’s enough, uncurling his body from his spot on the floor and hoisting himself to an upright position, his muscles aching in the process.

The door open swiftly and three pairs of eyes turn to him. It takes everything in his power not to laugh at their expressions — at Saihara’s guilty one, a deer caught in the headlights, at Momota’s concerned one, clearly alarmed by the fact that he’s made his position known, at the surprise etched on Harukawa’s face until it turns into fire and her hands curl into fists. 

“You,” she spits out and for a moment there he can feel the ghost of her hands clasping around his neck, can see her aiming a poisoned arrow right between his eyes. 

“Don’t mind me,” he chirps cheerfully, passing them before any of them could react. “I’m just heading out.”

He’s two blocks away when he realizes he’s still wearing his fluffy white slippers, now soaking wet and dragging dirt from the early spring mud. There’s no point going back now.

They leave by the time he’s back, late into the evening. 

Momota never mentions them again. Instead, he makes him dinner, for the first time in weeks. 

-

One, two, three, he counts his ribs, poking at them with cold, bony fingers as his reflection does the same, mirroring his every gesture, exposing every curve and dip and defect of his body, sick and broken and utterly useless. 

It’s okay, though. Momota doesn’t mind as long as he can fuck those pesky thoughts out of his head every night. 

That’s what Ouma likes the most about him. 

It’s a lie, though. 

He doesn’t like Momota at all.

-

“I swear, if you say another word, I’ll leave.”

Ouma stops mid-babble, lips pressing into a thin line and doe-like eyes turning to him, bright and watchful, and Momota wonders if he’s trying to access whether he’s serious or not. 

“You wouldn’t,” he says finally, decisively, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling smugly at him. 

Momota wishes he could be as sure of it as he is. 

-

“I wish I never met you.”

Ouma snorts. “That would have saved us a lot of trouble, don’t you think?”

Momota takes another swing of whiskey, lets it burn in his throat, wishes it could burn him from inside out, burn until the hollow feeling in his chest goes away, until it’s nothing but a faint memory. Hours later, when the first streaks of dawn sneak into the room, he wakes up in his own vomit and just as full of regrets as he was before he reached for the bottle.

-

Sometimes Ouma disappears for days. 

Momota doesn’t try to look for him and he most certainly doesn’t miss him.

-

“I hate you,” Momota whispers against his lips, one hand fumbling with the belt wrapped around his narrow hips and the other resting at the small of his back, keeping him in place, as if scared he would flee if given a chance. 

Ouma laughs, drunk on lust and hatred and something else entirely, giggles spilling from his mouth as he arches his body in a perfect curve, lets Momota do whatever he wants to do with him, pliant and obedient, a pale frail doll in his hands. 

“I hate you more,” he throws his confession back at him, amused little specks glistening in his eyes. 

He wears the sharp, dark imprint of Momota’s teeth on his neck for a good week after that until it eventually fades. He traces what’s left of it, a pallid outline where it used to be, and then goes to beg for more. 

-

“You deserved better,” slurs Momota between hiccups, his grip on the bottle loosening, head resting on the kitchen table, one cheek pressed against the smooth surface as he struggles to remain awake between the bouts of nausea. 

Ouma laughs. “No. I really didn’t.”

-

“Where did we go so wrong?” Momota asks one afternoon, sorting through his stack of unread letters, proclamations of love, little packages full of gifts that land in the trash bin before he could properly unpack them, faceless people he’s never seen and doesn’t intend to, thinking they know him better than he does.

Who knows, maybe that’s true. Because he sure as hell has no idea who he is. 

“I don’t know, Momota-chan,” drawls Ouma from where he’s perched on top of their little couch, unseeing gaze plastered to the TV where a neatly dressed woman with vibrant pink lipstick smeared over her lips announces the next season of Danganronpa, providing the viewers with all the information about the auditions, just in case if they are young and fame-houngty enough to throw their life away. “Considering that our entire relationship is based on the fact that you killed me on public TV, I’d say it was never really right.” 

Momota winces and focuses back on his mail. 

Ouma gave up on his weeks ago and Team Danganronpa agreed to refrain from delivering it to him once it became clear that half of it is nothing but threats and insults anyway. 

-

When the fourth therapist resigns, they get an official letter from Team Danganronpa, announcing that they will no longer fund their therapy on the basis of them being uncooperative. 

Ouma wonders why it took them so long. 

-

Ouma pours his alcohol stash down the drain. 

Momota doesn’t speak to him for three days after that, anger lingering in his veins, bubbling hotly at the pit of his stomach. He still finds Ouma at night, though, leaving finger-shaped bruises along the length of his thigh. 

-

“I’ve never been good at this… emotional stuff,” he admits once, apropos of nothing.

He’s surprised when Ouma chooses to respond, his back turned to him and his small, pale form wrapped in blankets and sheets shifts slightly where he’s curled at the edge of the bed. Angry bites and nasty bruises decorate his skin that trail the path of Momota’s teeth and hands. “Except anger.”

Momota closes his eyes and wishes he could be anywhere but here.

“Except anger,” he agrees quietly. 

-

They get invited to attend a gala to celebrate the anniversary of their game. 

They stay home, throwing popcorn at the TV and then fucking to the sound of Shirogane’s speech about how it’s been the best season yet, a success Team Danganronpa fully intends to top once the new season begins and a new set of kids is sent to their deaths.

-

Their kisses are always laced with anger and a pang of guilt, a testament to that sick, hopeless dependency they share, their inability to be something healthy together, something good together, dragging each other down until they hit the lowest of lows. 

They kiss softly, once. The same way one would kiss a lover, a companion.

It feels wrong. It tastes wrong.

-

“Hey, Momota-chan! What is your deepest, darkest fear?”

“All of my deepest, darkest fears already came true,” he says, glaring into the mug clutched in his hands.

Ouma pouts, shaking his head over the edge of his magazine, the kind of magazine Momota’s only ever seen in the hands of teenage girls, giggling over the articles about masturbation and silly, obviously made up fan letters asking for advice about boys or sex or other things he couldn’t care less about. 

“Nuh-huh,” he protests childishly. “This here says you have to choose between the fear of darkness, being betrayed by someone you love or social interactions.”

Momota rolls his eyes. “That last one then.”

Ouma’s pout deepens and he lets out a small huff of annoyance through his nose. “Liar. Everyone knows Momota-chan is afraid of darkness.”

Momota doesn’t bother trying to correct him.

-

“Hey, Ouma. Do you think it’s ever going to be normal? Are we… Are _ we _ ever going to be normal?”

“Define normal.”

Momota opens his mouth to respond but then closes it abruptly, realizing he has no answer for that. 

-

He leaves for hours and when he comes back it’s with a small plant tucked under his coat. Ouma comes out from wherever he’s been hiding and stares at it unblinkingly.

“What is it?” he asks flatly. 

“A plant,” Momota says simply, as if that explains everything. 

Ouma hums quietly, inspecting its leaves, vibrant green and curling towards the window. “Why?”

Momota shrugs, shaking the coat off his shoulders and filling their small, rusty kettle with water. 

“I don’t know. But I think… I think we’re ready to let some life in here.”

Ouma purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything. The plants stays. 

-

“You’re boring.”

“I know. You tell me every day.”

-

Sometimes he entertains the idea of leaving for good, letting those broken pieces stay here and go wherever his legs lead him, far away from this place. 

There’s no escaping Team Danganronpa, though. 

Besides, he’s not equipped to deal with Momota’s puppy dog eyes, even if only imaginary ones. 

-

If they pretend hard enough, they can almost pretend it’s enough, delude themselves into thinking that what they have is right… or at least not as wrong as it used to be, the worst of it buried underneath a layer of lies and bad choices, things they don’t speak of. 

The truth is, it’s a never-ending act of feigned ignorance, a practiced game of pretend in which there are no winners. 

It’s an arrangement, an excuse to avoid people who could never understand how some part of them will be forever trapped back in that exisal hangar, lips tasting like blood and the dull, distant sound of dripping water echoing in the empty space between them as they await death. 

-

“I love you,” Momota tries again months after the words slipped out of his mouth for the first time, and Ouma muses about how it sounds the same way as when he admits to hating him. 

“You talk too much,” he informs him and then leans in for a kiss, his teeth gnawing at Momota’s lips until he tastes blood. 

-

“Maybe we can be okay, after all,” Momota thinks loudly, gently cupping the leaves of his plant as he feeds it water and moves it closer to the sun. “One day, I mean.”

Ouma hums quietly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, as much as I love healthy and fluffy Oumota where they love and support each other, I also love to explore the darker side of their relationship, how they could become dependent on each other in an unhealthy manner and how self-destructive they can be. Also, as someone who struggles with a personality disorder and depression it's something that I like to write about because it's somewhat cathartic for me. In a lot of ways it's basically a vent fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Comments are kudos are always appreciated! I'd love to hear your thoughts, what you enjoyed about this fic, even though 'enjoyed' might not be the best word for it, considering the themes, heh.


End file.
